The Sunshine Vignettes
by Illini301
Summary: Harry and Draco seem intrinsically at odds with one another, but there are moments throughout the years that move their relationship from loathing to love. AU. Some harsh language. HP/DM Slash.


I take care to keep the Invisibility Cloak wrapped tightly around my slight frame as the chilly night wind yanks incessantly at it. Apparently, its greatest ambition this evening is to expose me to Malfoy.

I heard him first from below as I walked languidly through the dark, deserted stretches of the castle. These nightly promenades, completely silent and blessedly undisturbed, have become a sort of ritual since the episode at the dueling club. I miss the way these halls meant joy – _familial joy_ – before the attacks, before the entire student population, save Ron and Hermione, took up the opinion that I am quite likely the Heir of Slytherin. It's refreshing to wander alone through the empty passageways, free from the merciless taunts and accusing stares of my classmates. Even now, Hogwarts is still exponentially better than the Dursley household, but only in the middle of the night does it still feel like home to me.

This evening, however, has betrayed me. I venture into the darkness for sanctuary, and instead I find myself drawn to the very top of the Astronomy Tower, curiosity winning the best of me when I heard the pitiful sobbing coming from above. Instead, I find myself observing my mortal enemy as he rocks back and forth, his knees clenched to his chest, clinging desperately to a crumpled note with white knuckles.

I quietly take a seat on the frigid stone floor across from him, content to watch with satisfaction as Draco Malfoy's cool exterior falls to pieces before me. A part of me is overcome with a feeling of smugness, delighted by the idea that something has driven Malfoy to the same depths of sorrow that I now feel walking through the castle everyday. Another part of me is insatiably curious to find out what that something is.

As I begin to contemplate how I might torture Malfoy for this information, he abruptly swipes at his wet face with his sleeve and stands, a strangely defiant look dawning on his countenance. His lips pursed but still trembling, he pulls his wand from his robes with astonishing speed, mutters an incantation that I cannot hear from this distance, and in one instant the note in his hand is ripped to shreds, the confetti falling like snow onto stone. He stares for one final moment, breathing deeply all the while, before he retreats back down the steps that brought us here, decidedly placing his trust in the evening's torrential wind to scatter the evidence that he was ever at the top of the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night.

I have only seconds before the remnants of the note are lost to the elements. A surge of triumphant adrenaline courses through me, and I hastily draw my wand and speak _reparo_. The pieces obligingly stitch themselves back together, the angry wind whipping the note my way with incredible force. The Seeker in me reaches out to capture it with ease, carelessly allowing the Cloak to fall off my person and into a heap. I barely register the fact that I am no longer invisible; I run to the nearest lantern to read the note's contents.

_Draco, _

_I have just been informed of the outcome of today's Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin._

_I am disappointed in you. _

_When I purchased for Slytherin seven of the greatest brooms in the world with Malfoy gold, I expected you to glorify the Malfoy name. You seem to favor spitting on it. There is no excuse for losing to an orphaned brat on an inferior broom. You are a pureblood, Draco, but your failures make you little better than a Weasley. It disgusts me that you cannot keep up with a boy who was not even aware of his ancestry for the first eleven years of his life, when you have spent years training for a place on your House's team. I will not tolerate such embarrassment. The Malfoy name is great. I expect greatness. _

_Your Father _

The smirk that I felt tugging at the corners of my lips upon reading the beginning of the letter disintegrates with every passing sentence. I am conflicted.

The win today was a respite that I very desperately needed. On the Quidditch pitch, I feel like a true hero, not the boy who had a heroic role thrust upon him against his will. I am confident and whole because I know that my _talents_ will win a match, not some meaningless twist of fate. It is the only place where I feel I actually _earn_ the respect of my peers. Usually, respect simply comes in the form of awe, mouths open and gaping at the scar that marks the Boy Who Lived. It isn't enough for me to be admired for surviving a curse by accident.

With a sharp intake of breath I remember the earlier match, the Snitch hovering just above Malfoy's ear, my impossible snatch. I feel… proud. I had almost forgotten what that was like.

I look down again at the note in my hands. The swell of pride that fills my lungs drops like a stone into my stomach, the rare sensation of completeness giving way to my constant companion of loss. I cannot help but wonder what my parents would write to me once they heard the news about the game. Would my father recount one of his stories about a similar victorious catch? Would my mother insist that the two of them would make a special trip to see me play at the upcoming Hufflepuff match?

Speculation is all I have. Still, mere speculation is enough to warm my insides as I stand here freezing. Somehow, I know my parents could never write words as cruel, as cold and biting and scathing, as the ones I hold in my hand. I have never spent much time wondering how Draco had learned to play the bully so well, but now I see the reason. I have caught his guilty father red-handed in the breeze. For the first time since our encounter in Diagon Alley, I understand Draco Malfoy.

I am startled from my contemplations by a noise from the stairwell. Jamming the note into my robes, I rush back to where my Cloak lies abandoned and just manage to conceal myself before Snape steps wistfully onto the balcony. I remain frozen in my tracks, waiting to see if he senses my presence. With an uncharacteristic sadness in his eyes, he walks right past me, rippling the Cloak as he moves. My breath hitches – I'm sure he's seen a glimpse of me.

He gives no sign of it. He plods to the edge of the tower and grips the railing tightly, arms spread wide. His head hangs. I wonder absurdly if the Quidditch loss has Snape feeling as equally defeated as Malfoy.

I hear him whisper something mournfully – a name, perhaps – but it is lost on the wind.

I decide not to press my luck; one circumstance conspiring to gratify my curiosity is enough for one evening. I quietly make my way to the stairs and descend into the castle unnoticed, my thoughts in the meanwhile turning back to Malfoy.

An appreciation for why Malfoy is such a jerk does not excuse his behavior. We are still intrinsically at odds. We are still enemies.


End file.
